


Let it Be

by artisan447



Category: Magnificent 7 (ATF)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-10
Updated: 2010-10-10
Packaged: 2017-10-13 01:07:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/131119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artisan447/pseuds/artisan447
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a teensy weensy ficlet inspired by a Chris Larabee manip by <a href="http://van.dreamwidth.org/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://van.dreamwidth.org/"><strong>van</strong></a> / <a href="http://slavelabour.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://slavelabour.livejournal.com/"><strong>slavelabour</strong></a>. Seriously, if you don't want to read the fic, at least go look at the pic. I was in the mood for angst, so there's buckets of that and, well -- not much else.</p><p>And yes, the title *was* inspired by the anniversary of John Lennon's birthday. What can I say?</p>
    </blockquote>





	Let it Be

**Author's Note:**

> This is a teensy weensy ficlet inspired by a Chris Larabee manip by [](http://van.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**van**](http://van.dreamwidth.org/) / [](http://slavelabour.livejournal.com/profile)[**slavelabour**](http://slavelabour.livejournal.com/). Seriously, if you don't want to read the fic, at least go look at the pic. I was in the mood for angst, so there's buckets of that and, well -- not much else.
> 
> And yes, the title *was* inspired by the anniversary of John Lennon's birthday. What can I say?

  
Here is the lovely pic from Van:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 **Let it Be**

The steam swirled and eddied and filled the empty spaces of the shower room, but it wasn't thick enough to obscure the scrapes and bruises that marred Chris's skin. Thirty minutes and counting, he'd been there, letting the hot water beat down on his back, and still he'd hardly said a word.

Vin kept his distance and watched from the doorway as Chris leaned forward to brace his weight against the tile.

He'd never seen Chris like this before -- drawn so tightly into himself, by all his actions teetering on the edge of something Vin had no wish to push him over.

Chris didn't want contact, he'd made that clear enough, but he hadn't given any sign what he did want, either, and much as the talent would come in handy, Vin wasn't a mind-reader. All he knew was he wasn't letting Chris out of his sight and if that meant he didn't speak for a week, then so be it.

He consciously relaxed his white-knuckled grip on the bundle of towels and clothes, and forced himself to be still.

It shouldn't surprise him, really, seeing Chris this way -- he'd absorbed every detail of the scant evidence they'd pieced together over three long days, monitored the fucking live surveillance they'd scrambled into place at the end. Seen, heard, _watched_ every goddamn blow Chris'd taken, driven by an irrational need to make sure he didn't take them alone.

His vision tunnelled, away from the damage evident on torso and thighs and focused in on the bruises that ringed Chris's wrists, the dark black-green stark against the pallor of his arms, and he was suddenly back in that cold, dark room, swallowing down his impotent rage at the sight of Chris strung up naked, and then bearing the weight of his body -- oh-so-carefully -- as Buck cut the ties, ignoring the harsh, guttural sounds that crawled out of Chris's throat at every contact with his abused flesh.

He didn't want the memories, but was glad of them; they made him remember that Chris had every right to his space ... to his silence.

He pushed away from the door frame and approached Chris carefully; managed to keep his movements slow and deliberate as he leaned past to turn off the water, and pointedly ignored the flinch.

"C'mon, cowboy. It's time."

He draped the towel over Chris's shoulders and resisted the urge to squeeze them in reassurance.

Hazel eyes flicked up once to meet his, skittered away, then settled somewhere around his feet.

"Thanks. I've got it." The voice was a rough, pained whisper, and accompanied by a step back, as far as the stall allowed. Vin took his own steps back, readily giving space if that was all Chris would accept.

"Buck brought your uniform," he said, watching as Chris dried off roughly and somehow kept the shake of his hands to a minimum.

"Here--" he handed over the underwear, then casually walked back toward the benches, silently inviting Chris to follow.

He'd hung the dress uniform on a peg, stacked the shoes and socks neatly underneath and stood silently by while Chris dropped the towel and began to dress. Leaned in to assist in the most clinical way he knew when Chris fumbled with the buttons of his shirt and the buckle of his belt.

He caught sight of a figure hovering in the locker room doorway. "I'll just get your badge and gun," he said as Chris sat to deal with his socks and shoes.

Buck met him just through the door. "He say anything, yet?" he asked with an anxious glance over Vin's shoulder.

"Not yet," Vin replied, taking the badge and gun.

"Stubborn prick, that means he's still set on going to the service." Buck narrowed his eyes in consideration and then nodded once and gestured toward the door. "I'll get the car."

"Thanks, Buck." Buck had more practice, more experience, more plain time-under-his-belt than anyone in knowing how to deal with Chris and Vin didn't have any problem following his lead.

Chris was still seated. He'd managed both socks and one shoe but seemed to have stalled with the other cradled in his hands.

Vin crouched and took it. "Buck's bringing the car, 'round," he said.

Chris nodded, blank eyes showing nothing of what was going on in his head and Vin looked away, unable to bear the shuttered stare and everything left unsaid.

It took longer that it should have, his own fingers struggling with laces that seemed to want to do everything but tie a knot, the tension radiating off Chris rippling down the back of his neck and pooling in his chest.

The effort needed to deny the urge to touch almost choked him.

It was supposed to have been a quiet week, with half the team on leave and Vin at a gun show. Chris'd only gone to the bust because Rafe was down a man and Chris was bored. It should've been a walk in the park. Instead, Chris'd wound up as a hostage and Burnett had bled out at the scene before anyone could get near him.

What a fucking disaster.

"Vin..."

The hazel eyes met his for a bit longer this time and Chris cleared his raw throat. "Josiah ...?"

Figured that with everything else that had happened, that'd be what was playing on his mind.

"Ezra's with him," Vin said. He fished his cell out of his pocket and held the message up for Chris to read. Chris huffed out a strangled laugh at the crude text.

"IA's all over it," Vin said, straightening, and holding out his hand. "Bastard's lucky Josiah's the only one who plugged him."

He hauled Chris to his feet and waited while he slid on his jacket. Awkward silence between them wasn't something he'd had much practice with.

"Travis is pissed," he finally said.

Chris was looking down, concentrating on fastening his buttons, but that brought his head up.

"Yeah," he said, with a wry twist to his lips, as though it were inevitable. It probably was. "I'll talk to him."

Imagining how that conversation would go made Vin smile and for a minute they shared a grin. "Come on," he said and turned to the door.

"Hey." The hand on his arm pulled him up, and he turned to find Chris no more than a breath away.

"You okay?" Chris asked, and suddenly he was there, right in the moment, and the concern in his eyes was all for Vin.

Was _he_ okay? The incongruity of the question startled a laugh out of him and he sucked in a normal-feeling breath for the first time in a week.

He waited a beat them reached out and pulled Chris into a loose hug. "You ever do something that stupid again and I'll kill you myself," he said quietly into Chris's neck, pretending to ignore the hand that squeezed his waist tight.

"Ain't planning on it," Chris said quietly, then stepped away, but the shadows in his eyes had retreated.

Vin let his eyes sweep Chris's face, taking in the slightly heightened colour; Chris always did blush like a schoolgirl when emotion hit. He reached out and smoothed his hand over Chris's chest, straightening his name tag on the way, then ran his hand down Chris's arm and squeezed his fingers once.

"C'mon," he said, letting his hand drop and turning for the door. "Still got a job to do."

 

Oh, and I really, really, REALLY think this needs a Chris POV. Seriously. Anyone who comes up with one will get cookies. *g*

 **edit:** okay, [](http://slavelabour.livejournal.com/profile)[**slavelabour**](http://slavelabour.livejournal.com/) gets the cookies, she wrote lovely comment!fic, here: <http://ms-artisan.livejournal.com/105323.html?thread=866923#t866923>  


  
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